


ruby in the dust

by helwolves



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Nail Polish, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Scratching, Sneaking Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helwolves/pseuds/helwolves
Summary: Shiro and Keith sneak out of the Garrison for a diner date. Keith's nails are painted glitter red. Shiro's got it bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **me:** I want to write about Keith wearing nail polish and giving Shiro head. It's okay if it's only like 500 words, I just want to finish something.  
>  **also me:**

Shiro finds the note in his locker. Like the two of them are some kind of high schoolers planning an illicit extracurricular meetup. Keith probably got a kick out of that.

That Shiro’s locker—his _locked_ locker, no less—is in fact among the lower row of instructor’s assistant lockers on the far wall of the instructor’s lounge, well... Keith probably got a kick out of that too. And Shiro has no goddamn idea how he does it.

But there it is, small, slightly crumpled, folded, blue-lined. Bordered with a torn half doodle of a constellation that was probably not part of any assignment. And Keith’s handwriting, neat and tiny block letters:

**come out tonight?**  
**— k**

Keith is a man of few words. Or really, just the right amount of words. He doesn’t talk to fill dead air. Appreciates quiet, but isn’t at all shy. It’s one of the things Shiro loves most about him.

Shiro refolds the note and tucks it into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket, so it won’t fall into the wrong hands. Not because he’s going to keep it. Probably.

 

✩

 

It’s the middle of the week and later than dinner but earlier than the bars close, so the highway diner’s parking lot is pretty empty when Shiro pulls in. He picks a spot near the road and puts the Garrison jeep in park, climbs out and runs a hand through his hair to loosen some of the knots and desert grit.

Keith’s—well, the bike that Keith rode here is parked up front. He hadn’t been in the mess hall tonight. The layers of pale brown dust on the speeder say maybe Keith has been out riding for a while today.

The first thing Shiro notices when he walks inside is the back of Keith’s head. His dark hair’s a mess but pulled back into a tiny ponytail as if he tried to make it respectable. Shiro tugs on it when he walks by, grinning down at Keith’s scrunched face while he shrugs off his bomber and drops it into the booth across from Keith, then drops himself in after.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” he says.

Keith’s scrunch shifts into a soft smile. “Glad you could make it.”

The second thing Shiro notices is Keith’s hand wrapped around his usual strawberry milkshake, and how the chemical-spill pink inside the fluted glass clashes with the glittering red polish on his fingernails.

Maybe that’s a few things.

“I ordered cheddar burgers,” Keith continues. His fingers twitch-slide through the condensation on the glass, droplets trailing down to the white formica.

“Um,” says Shiro, head tilted.

He’s momentarily distracted by Keith raising the milkshake and curling his tongue out to catch the straw and draw it between his lips.

A few loud slurps later, Keith plunks the glass back on the table. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, wipes the back of his hand on his t-shirt, a smear of pink-stained whipped cream left melting into the black.

Then Keith’s arms are crossed and he’s shooting Shiro a puzzled look. The flashes of sparkly red are hidden from view and there’s whipped cream on Keith’s shirt and Shiro is almost able to think again.

 

✩

 

Shiro’s a pretty smart guy, but some things take a while to master. He’s learned to value patience.

He’s learned how to use the night sky like a compass. He’s learned how to disassemble and reassemble a modified Keaton beam rifle without blowing himself up via an exposed power cell.

He’s learned which hallways and lecture rooms fall along the least frequented guard patrol paths.

He’s learned the taste of Keith’s skin in the dark.

He’s learned that Keith loves having Shiro’s full attention on him, but doesn’t like asking for it. Overtly, anyway.

 

✩

 

“So,” Shiro says, Keith’s hair tickling his lips as they move. Shiro still hasn’t mentioned the nail polish, is still dying to.

They’re in the jeep, in the back with the front seats folded down so they can press the sides of their bodies together, stretch out their legs a little, and kick their boots against each other. The radio crackles in its attempt to play the next town over’s classic alternative station. Shiro drove out far enough that the neon of the diner’s sign is a haloed smudge in the distance. With the canvas top down and the jeep parked at the edge of a mildly impressive canyon, everything is starscape and static.

“So...” Keith echoes after turning his face into Shiro’s neck. His breath is a warm haze driving off the desert’s night chill. Shiro shivers and tightens the arm he has around Keith’s shoulders.

Keith slides a hand from his own lap to Shiro’s inner thigh, just above his knee, tracing small arcs there. Shiro is mesmerized by the motion of Keith’s fingertips in the moonlight, the deep cherry red reflecting with a subsumed shimmer like the fresh paint job on a prized street racer.

Keith barely manages to brush his lips against Shiro’s neck before Shiro huffs and twists his hand into Keith’s hair, yanking his head back just short of too hard.

Shiro catches a flash of Keith’s grin—a little wild, very gorgeous—before surging in for a kiss.

Keith groans low in his throat, was already meeting Shiro halfway—and can’t seem to climb into Shiro’s lap fast enough. His hands are moving, making quick progress on the buttons of Shiro’s shirt and pushing it back off his shoulders. Keith drags his blunt nails down Shiro’s bare chest, staring, with a flush high on his cheekbones, as fine pink lines chase the glittering red.

“It’s pretty,” Shiro says, staring too as Keith repeats the motion, a little harder this time, intersecting lines. One nail grazes over a nipple and Shiro hisses through his teeth. He glances up to catch Keith gnawing on his own bottom lip.

“I thought so,” Keith says finally, still fixated on the scratches blooming along Shiro’s chest and abs. “I mean, I thought you’d like it.”

Shiro grins and bucks his hips, is doubly rewarded with some much-desired friction and Keith being jostled closer. His hands around Keith’s waist slide lower to give his ass an affirmative squeeze. 

“ _You’re_ pretty.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

Keith makes a face, but he’s clearly struggling not to smile, and eventually fails. Then he ducks his head and nips at the curve of Shiro’s pectoral hard enough to make him swear loudly. Keith cuts him off with a sucker punch of a kiss, licking into Shiro’s mouth sudden and deep and over just as quick.

And then Keith is sliding away from him, knees hitting the jeep’s metal floor between Shiro’s bent legs. His tongue peeks out while he gets Shiro’s belt unbuckled and fly unfastened. Shiro lets his head fall back in relief—his jeans are nowhere near as tight as Keith’s but it was getting to be a _problem_. The lack of a headrest makes it more of a full-body roll that has Keith’s eyes narrowed and raking over Shiro hungrily.

Shiro feels his heartbeat in his ears, the flush spreading down his neck. Keith has no idea what that kind of look does to him. Or no—probably he does. Definitely he does.

Keith slides two fingers over the strained and clingy fabric of Shiro’s boxers, along the significant outline of his dick. The nail polish stands out even brighter against the black, Keith’s fair skin only slightly less so.

“Firecracker,” Keith says. This is probably relevant to something, maybe he missed a few words, but Shiro’s fucking distracted by the way Keith is staring and wetting his lips as he pulls Shiro’s cock out. It twitches hard in his hand and Shiro exhales and fights to keep his eyes from drifting closed.

Keith, assessing the situation, meets Shiro’s gaze and grins. “Maybe I should wear it all the time, huh?” His eyes seem to glitter in the light of the near-full moon, familiar deep blue looking impossibly violet, beautiful. He squeezes teasingly.

“It’s—it’s not regulation,” Shiro chokes out. He smacks the back of his hand over his mouth to hide his deepening blush, to stop himself from _talking_ , fuck.

“We-e-ell,” Keith says, drawing it out while giving Shiro’s length a good, solid stroke and sliding his thumb over the wet tip. “Neither is this. _Sir_.”

 

✩

 

Some true things: Shiro likes how much of Keith’s waist he can encircle with both hands. He likes his thick, dark, pretty eyelashes. He likes how he can lift him against a wall so easily.

He also likes how Keith can pin him almost effortlessly in the sparring ring. He likes having Keith gripping his wrists, holding him down, in the gym, in the dark. He likes the bite of Keith’s sharp hipbones against his skin.

He likes when Keith says “sir” with that terrible dagger smile, and that is really going to get him in trouble someday.

 

✩

 

“Oh my g— _ahhh_...”

Keith’s tongue is sticking out, broad and flat and very, very wet, and he’s dragging the head of Shiro’s cock over it, around, around, luxuriant. His eyelashes flutter and he looks _enraptured_. Tucking away his tongue, he lets Shiro’s cock catch on his bottom lip, tugging it down, making Shiro’s breath stutter and his hips jerk.

Keith wets his lips again and purses them, then guides Shiro to push inside, slow, slow, slow. Shiro watched dazedly as Keith’s mouth stretches open around him, his lips shiny red. Not as red as the nails on the hand he’s got wrapped around the base, but getting there. 

One hand still buried in the soft tangles of Keith’s hair, Shiro runs the other over the stinging scratches on his chest. There’s a bruise just over his ribs from his last CQC sim, the kind of bruise you can feel more than see, and he presses the heel of his palm into it just as Keith swallows him down. It makes his whole body shiver, thigh muscles flexing hard, another surge of pre-come spilling down Keith’s throat. Keith hitches himself up higher on his knees and curls in closer with a quiet moan that Shiro can barely hear but can sure as fuck feel.

When they don’t have much time, which is always—when Keith makes a real effort, well... Shiro’s kind of embarrassed at how easy he is.

“Ah... _ahh_ , fuck... baby, _please_ —” 

Shiro knows he always starts babbling dumb shit when he’s close but he can’t stop himself. Sometimes he tries biting something—the meat of his palm, a jacket sleeve—but Keith will yank it away, or shake his head, like he’s doing now, and it brooks no argument.

Keith’s pulled off a little to catch his breath, panting over Shiro’s cock and lapping at it carefully while Shiro gasps and whines. Then he hums and lets just the head rest heavy on his tongue, starts to jerk him hard, grip tightening and relaxing just the way he knows Shiro loves it, and Shiro’s hips stutter as he comes in long, slow spurts over Keith’s tongue.

Some of it drips past his lips, down over his fingers. Keith licks them both clean and Shiro’s not sure he’ll be able to look at that particular glittering red ever again without getting a little hard.

 

✩

 

It’s not especially comfortable in the jeep, but the pinch in his spine is a small price for Shiro to pay to curl up with his head resting in Keith’s lap, Keith’s hands stroking his hair, tugging gently through the longer bits, scratching his nails against his scalp and the prickly recently shaved sides. Shiro tries to nuzzle closer, but just manages to nearly drag Keith off the bench seat with him.

“God,” Keith says, straightening himself. “You’re like one of those huge dogs that doesn’t know it’s huge.”

Shiro scoffs. “I am not your lap dog.”

Keith scratches the stubble under Shiro’s jaw, laughing. It tickles enough that Shiro tries to shake him off reflexively, causing his Garrison tags to rattle on their chain around his neck. 

He would swear Keith’s laughter echoes through the canyon like a lullabye.

 

✩

 

Every time Shiro drops Keith off back at the diner, he feels a sharp urge to hop out of the running jeep and chase after him. This time he gives in to it a little, takes the time that Keith’s tugging his jacket back on to circle around and open the passenger door for him, then press him hard against it and kiss him thoroughly.

Nothing with Keith ever feels like enough. Shiro wants to stay out in the empty desert with him until dawn comes and everything’s just dew and lizards. He wants to take him somewhere they can curl up in a big bed together and not have to come up for air for days. The thought twists something both hot and cold through his belly, so strong that he feels dizzy with it.

“I want to sleep with you,” Shiro says, with his forehead resting against Keith’s, his eyes closed.

Keith huffs a laugh. “Buddy, I got news for you...”

“No, I mean—”

“ _Shh_ , I know...” he murmurs, and then, “I—I think about it a lot too.”

Shiro tips his head back, blinking hard. “Maybe we could—do you want to go somewhere? With me? Nothing fancy, but... Maybe next break, we could—”

Keith kisses him quiet.

 

✩

 

Shiro runs a hand back through his own hair, grinning to himself as he reads over the dumb note he’s written.

**That was a yes, right?**  
**xo**

He thinks about Keith walking across the parking lot. The rattle of the borrowed bike’s hover engine turning over, Keith shifting it into gear as the noise settled into its low hum. Keith looking up at Shiro, then giving him the cheesiest thumbs-up before he tore out onto the dusty highway.

There won’t be any covert mission involved in slipping the note into Keith’s locker among the other senior cadets’, but Shiro figures he’ll appreciate the thought.

 

✩

 

Keith had once asked him, “Do you want to get out of here?”

He’d meant, like, _here_. The Garrison. The state. The planet. He wasn’t really expecting an answer; it wasn’t a question so much as a frustration, a fear.

Shiro, misinterpreting, had blushed. Keith, interpreting perfectly, had kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Hello, ruby in the dust_  
>  _Has your band begun to rust?_  
>  _After all the sin we've had_  
>  _I was hoping that we'd turn bad_  
>  —["Cowgirl in the Sand," Neil Young](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fAXl97-RFg)
> 
> This is the sort of thing I really enjoy writing. I hope you enjoyed reading.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/helwolves) // [tumblr](http://helwolves.tumblr.com/)


End file.
